#library embossing seal

[acornsalessealsstamps]

Add a charming touch to your book collection with this personalized library embossing seal. Featuring a winsome daisy design, this 1-5/8" press leaves a crisp imprint of your name—ideal for bibliophiles who love marking their literary treasures in style.

[engineersealstamps]

Professional Blue Soft Seal Embosser

No matter what your profession may be, our Professional Blue Soft Seal Embosser will help you to add an impression with your information quickly and easily. Featuring a calming blue color and convenient size, this embosser is easy to take with you wherever you go. Plus, it comes equipped with a sliding lock mechanism that can be activated when you need to move or store it away.

Highlights:

State Board Guaranteed

Two Year Warranty

Includes complimentary e-seals

Shipped to buyers in under 48 hours

Easy to grip handle

[tuuliareads]

You know shit gets real when I use my embosser on a book

[jadeshifting]

— GALAS AT MALFOY MANOR

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

a MALFOY GALA is less about having fun and more about proving you belong—if you can keep your wits about you and avoid spilling wine on your robes, you might just make it out unscathed

— the INVITATIONS are delivered by sleek black owls with embossed emerald parchment, each one radiating a subtle but unmistakable don’t even think about declining energy. declining is possible, but only if you want to be talked about for months

— FIRST IMPRESSIONS, arriving guests are greeted by enchanted lanterns that light the winding driveway, their flames flickering in perfect synchrony. a house-elf in pristine livery opens the grand doors, and Narcissa herself offers the faintest of smiles as you step into the marble-floored foyer

— the ATMOSPHERE practically drips with opulence, from the enchanted chandeliers glittering like constellations to the string quartets playing hauntingly beautiful tunes. it’s all about showing off—not just wealth, but power

— the MANOR is decked out to perfection, with enchanted roses blooming in every room and marble floors that reflect the candlelight. guests can wander the gardens, but you do not open random doors—who knows what cursed artifacts are lurking

— the GUESTS are a who’s-who of the wizarding elite, with sharp smiles and sharper tongues. everyone’s dressed to kill, literally dripping in jewels and designer robes, and no one’s above a bit of genteel gossiping in the corners

— DRESS CODE is strictly black-tie, wizarding style. robes must be tailored to perfection, and any magical embellishments—like self-adjusting hems or floating crystals—must be tasteful. Narcissa will notice, and Draco will most definitely make a subtle dig at you if your outfit doesn’t meet the mark

— THE MALFOYS; Lucius and Narcissa glide around like royalty, greeting everyone with icy politeness. Draco’s usually lurking near the drinks table, equal parts brooding and charming depending on who’s watching

— the banquet tables of FOOD are insane—tiered platters of exotic delicacies that practically float into your hands. expect flaming desserts and cocktails that shimmer like liquid starlight

— DRINKS, the bar is stocked with rare vintages, including Malfoy estate wines and liquors that glow faintly in the dark. The signature cocktail of the night features some absurdly rare ingredient like powdered unicorn horn (ethically sourced, allegedly, but you know no one truly believes that)

— the SEATING ARRANGEMENTS are very strategically assigned by Narcissa herself. expect rival families seated just far enough apart to avoid an outright duel but close enough to exchange cutting remarks. if you’re at the main table, congratulations—you’ve made the inner circle for the evening

— the POLITICS make every conversation a chess game. compliments are laced with subtext, and alliances are solidified or shattered over a glass of wine. it’s not unheard of for a marriage to be proposed or a business deal to be sealed between bites of pheasant

— GARDEN STROLLS, between courses, guests often wander the enchanted gardens. hedges shaped like serpents and peacocks loom large, and fountains spout shimmering streams of water that occasionally form words like Prestige or Legacy. don’t get lost—the statues might move if you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be

— the ENTERTAINMENT is always top-tier—enchanted ballet performances, fire-breathing dragons (contained, of course), or dueling demonstrations in the courtyard. if you’re lucky, the family’s private orchestra might play a piece commissioned just for the evening

— occasionally, a guest might be granted a private tour of the MALFOY LIBRARY, which is more like a cathedral of books. if you’re invited in, it’s a signal that Lucius or Narcissa considers you very important—or that they’re about to offer you a deal you can’t refuse

— the DANCE FLOOR of the ballroom opens up after dinner, and it’s the place to be seen. couples glide across the floor to live orchestral music, their robes trailing behind them like spilled ink. if you don’t know how to waltz, you’d better fake it or stay far away

— someone always makes a DRAMATIC EXIT and leaves in a huff. whether it’s over an offhand comment or a subtle power play gone wrong, there’s almost always a flurry of robes and the slam of the front door as a disgruntled guest Apparates home

— the GOSSIP is unbelievable, and by the time the gala is over, the rumor mill is in full swing. who danced with whom, who got too drunk on enchanted champagne, and who dared to challenge Lucius in a political debate? everyone talks about it for weeks

as the evening winds down, you’ll find Narcissa giving parting gifts wrapped in silver and green, while the house-elves discreetly clean up without a sound. no one leaves feeling quite the same, not that they’ll admit it

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔

[inquisimer]

something loosely inspired by the Rook Codex Prompts by @shivunin - it was an idea I had, but the format didn't come together for me until I saw this list. It also fills multiple possible prompts, but I didn't write it with any specific one in mind? So I'm just posting it like this asldgjlkdfh.

Arlow de Riva & Viago | 449 words | @dadrunkwriting - da4 spoilers, a letter written before Tearstone Island, for Neve to deliver in the event of Arlow's death

-

A letter written in Antivan, crumpled and smoothed out many times over. It is pinned to the library table by a dagger embossed with the sigil of House de Riva.

Viago, If you knew I was writing this, you’d slap me upside the head. But I’m writing it anyway, because you should hear it from me. It isn’t your fault. Whatever happened, if you’re reading this, it is not your fault I’m gone. And it’s not Lucanis’ either, so don’t blame him. I made my own choices. I hope they were the right ones, and that I’m not gone before the job was done. A Crow always finishes their contracts, right? I hope I didn’t let you down, in the end. (Here’s a break for you to yell at my ghost. Come back when you’ve calmed down.) You saved my life, you know? You didn’t have to. I know you would have made Talon, regardless. But you saved me—changed me, so much I don’t even know who I would have been otherwise. And I’m glad for that. I wouldn’t have wanted to be anyone other than who you made me. Yes, I mean that. Yes, I’m sure. Don’t argue with me when I’m not there to argue back. Just—believe me, for once. It doesn’t matter how it ended. We had a good run. A really good run. And despite it all, I wouldn’t have changed a thing, except maybe that I’d like to be hearing your lecture in real time right now. Wherever I am, I’m missing you. But don’t spend too much time missing me. The others need you—if the job isn’t done, help them. For my sake—a contract signed with my last breath. You help them save the world, and then you take Teia back to Treviso and you live. Have a really good cup of coffee; watch the sun rise over the canals. Keep going, because even when the world fell apart in my hands, you were the one thing that stayed the same. If there was anything I could leave this world knowing, it’s that that hasn’t changed. So. Keep living. For me? We’re not big on words, and I’ve already used up most of mine. But the seal on this letter wasn’t poisoned—as you undoubtedly tested—and that should tell you all you need to know. I love you, Viago. I’m sorry that I wasn’t good enough to make it back and tell you in person. But I always have. Thank you. For everything. -Arlow de Riva

The loopy signature is blotted with tears. Some smear the ink; others appear to have been left after the letter was opened.

[averagejoesolomon]

In light of, uh, recent news I'd like to present a slice of comfort. Please enjoy a couple thousand words of a man written by a woman. The book agent hunt is going well, so I may not be back until the later end of December, but here's a little treat to get you through the wait.

The Cameron-Morgan Wedding (1987)

“Shit.”

Matt’s bow tie droops during the first few notes of the Canon. With a glance down his front, he spots one end hanging lower than it should, slipped through the neat little knot at the crest of his collar and somehow fraying into messy, tattered strands.

This never would have happened if Rachel had done it, the way she always does up his bow ties. She’s good luck. But Abby had been insistent that he not see the bride before the ceremony and notably, Abby ain’t of any help now. Her eyes widen across the way, both of them knowing that Rachel has planned this moment down to second, down to the step, down to the snap of the photographer’s shutter. She has a comprehensive list of every last shot she expects to capture and none of them include a busted up bow tie.

Thankfully, the photographers ain’t looking at him. No one is. As the stringed quintet fills the grand atrium with the classic tune, all 342 attendees take their cue to stand and turn toward the bride. Matt can’t make out any details from his place at the end of a long aisle, but he doesn’t need to. She takes up all the air in the room. She fills it from wall-to-wall, balcony-to-balcony, stack-to-stack-to-stack. The George Peabody Library has 300,000 books and fifteen-hundred first editions, but it’s never felt as full as it does when Rachel Cameron walks through its doors, dressed all in white.

And Matt refuses to look like this, when she looks like that. “Joe.”

“Keep your cool, cowboy.”

Joe’s already at his front, pulling the bow tie from Matt’s neck with the same sort of precision he pulls a trigger. He tucks this into his jacket pocket, right next to the rings, then unloops the half-Windsor around his own neck. Matt’s collar is popped, in a way Rachel explicitly prohibited when he asked months before, but Joe makes quick work of wrapping the new tie into place, tying it into a neat knot, then tucking Matt’s collar back into place. It’s not a bow tie, but it’ll do.

Joe takes his place at Matt’s back once more, tie-less and without enough time to redo his top button before the room turns slowly toward the towering floral wedding arch. Rachel’s halfway down the aisle when Matt looks back up and, not for the first time in their lives, her beauty strikes him straight on.

She’s a fresh snowfall on Christmas Eve. She’s the crystalline frost on the window, catching rays of winter sunlight. She’s angelic. She’s godly. She’s divine.

On her arm, Henry locks eyes with Matt and mimes a subtle tuck into the front of his suit jacket. With a quick glance, Matt realizes the tail of his tie hangs free and quickly tucks it behind his buttons, just in time for the photographer to snap a picture.

_____

The George Peabody Library is the sort of place where a woman like Rachel Cameron deserves to get married, even if she is marrying a farm boy from Nebraska. 

It’s all black-and-white tile, gold-leafed columns, and old wood shelves brimming with books that smell like a stack of newspapers. It’s twinkling lights strung from five stories of intricate iron balconies. It’s low, golden sconces lighting up a crowd of elegant evening wear and it’s a private stringed quintet playing from the second balcony.

This is a prestigious enough event to be covered by the local papers—which is a tricky sort of affair given that half of their attendees are deep in the world of covert intelligence, but Rachel navigates this with ease, and everyone here knows how to dodge a reporter if need be. The invitations had been embossed with real gold, tucked into parchment envelopes sealed with golden wax and addressed to the most important names in Maryland High Society. The governor is in attendance. Both senators. Multiple members of the Secret Service, all of them off-duty, given that the Vice President and Second Lady regretfully declined. Sports stars, and business moguls, and socialites. Rachel Cameron’s wedding is the undisputed event of the season.

Matt forgets about all of this, the moment Rachel smiles up at him.

That’s all it takes. From her, it never takes much. Rachel is made from carefully restrained might, always looking for an avenue to escape. When it finally finds a place to land, it strikes in these dense, controlled bolts of intention, and Matt reckons he could spend a lifetime on the receiving end. One look from her, done up in white, is all it takes to steal him away. To notice her, and only her, even as he stands in a gorgeous venue among a gorgeous crowd.

She’s lace, hand-sewn into her bodice. Satin trailing at her back. There are pearls around her neck, hanging from her ears, wrapped around her wrists. Daisies, daisies, daisies done up in braids, reminding him of the first time he truly met the real and ruthless Rachel. The woman he’s come to love.

It’s them. Only them, right up until the moment Rachel passes her white rose bouquet to Abby and Joe passes a pair of golden rings to Matt. 

Do you, Rachel? “I do.”

Do you, Matthew? “I do.”

Her lips break into a wide smile when they kiss. The strings, and the lights, and the applause all come second to her. _____

As two of Langley’s best and brightest, Matt and Rachel know how to sneak away from a crowd, and they make quick work of it as their cocktail hour comes to a close. The day so far has been a blur of travel, timelines, dresses and ties, and more posed photos than he can count. Finally, finally they find an intimate moment in the chaos, slipping between the fifth-floor stacks appropriately labeled Romantics.

Matt’s only want in the world is to grab her, pull her in close, and steal a moment just for himself. Except his hands are otherwise occupied with two armfuls of satin and lace. “Love of my life,” he says, with some exasperation. “It’s time to change your dress.”

Rachel runs her fingers along the spines of leather-bound books, train trailing as she goes. “Says who?”

“Says you, four hours ago,” he reminds her. “And for the past week. And for the last three months, when you said under no circumstances were you to wear the same dress to dinner that you wore to the ceremony.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she says, scanning the shelves. “Three dresses is a little ridiculous, don’t you think?”

It’s a quick and efficient reminder that this is only her second dress of the night, and the two of them will do this all over again with a third, smaller dress moments before the dance floor opens to the room. Matt doesn’t mind. So far, this small sliver of a shared moment is the best part of the best day of his life.  “I do think,” he replies. “And said so, when you were first fitted for them, but I was told it was rude to decline designers when they offer you a free dress. And also, I was outvoted.”

“By Abby.”

“By you and Abby,” Matt says. “And by your dad who, in my book, counts as five votes.”

“You shouldn’t be worried about my father.”

“M’not worried about your father,” he insists. “I’m worried about you, six weeks from now, when we get our photos back and you’re not in the right dress.” “Because you’d never hear the end of it?”

“Because from here on out, it’s my job to make sure you’re never disappointed again.”

Her wandering finger freezes, casting a long shadow through dim library lighting. The golden glow of the stacks hugs her cheekbones, her jaw, her neck as she tosses a glance over her shoulder. “You really are very sweet, you know.”

He shrugs, and the movement brings fifteen pounds of fabric with it. Arms growing tired, he hangs Gown Number Two from one of the shelves, in a way that would almost certainly make a librarian cringe. “I’m a catch,” he agrees. “Now please let me put this dress on you.”

She studies him, in that harsh, glaring way only she can. He’s come to love that glare. He married her for that glare. He must have seen this exact look a hundred times over and he’ll probably see it a thousand times more—but never again from Rachel Cameron. No sir. Her severity belongs to Rachel Morgan now.

Maybe she feels the shift too, because she softens and nods, collecting her cascading curls to pull them over her shoulder. Her back is exposed, shoulder blades sitting just along a lace seam and casting a shadow like wings. 

Dress Number One is held in place by no less than twenty individual buttons, so he doesn’t waste a breath. He meets Rachel at her back, methodically unlooping one satin button after another, the fabric smooth and stiff along his thumbprint. Inch by inch, the corset falls away and he spots another layer of buttons as he goes—but these ones can’t come undone. These buttons are bright and red, pressed into her skin, following the lines along her back. A full wedding day, etched into her spine, promising to stay through the evening.

He lets his touch linger along the ridges, confirming their phantom existence, and Rachel’s shoulders melt.  She lets go of a breath that she’s been holding all night.

“The poets were wrong,” she says.

With the last button undone, her dress drops into a puffy puddle, wrung around her ankles and revealing the silk slip she wears below. He catches a preview of the garter he’ll remove later, holding up sheer white stockings that stretch to her thigh, then takes her hand to hold her steady. “About what?”

She steps out of the ivory pile, landing square at his front. Her gaze cranes upward when she says, “About love,” she says, surrounded by Keats, and Shelley, and Byron, and Blake. “About how it feels.”

Dress Number One is left abandoned on the tile, while Matt dutifully fetches Dress Number Two. This one trades buttons for ribbons and he helps her step into it before lacing her up. “Is that right?”

He threads and pulls at silk, relishing in the fact that he’ll get to undo these same knots later. Rachel glances over her shoulder once more and says, “I’ve never read a single sonnet that made me feel the way I feel with you.”

And it ain’t fair, the way she looks at him. Like she’s somehow known the whole time. Like she knows everything, and he’s got a lot of catching up to do. Fine, then. He’s more than happy to make up for lost time, and he starts with a kiss—not their first as husband and wife, but certainly their best so far, with plenty more to follow.

They’re late to dinner, but Rachel Morgan seems to glow when she finally enters the ballroom in her second gown of the night. The room cheers, Abby gives a speech, and Matt’s pops says a prayer before dinner.

_____

“Dance with me.”

“Not much of a dancer.”

“You’ll dance with me, though.”

When it comes to Abigail Cameron, there’s not much Matt won’t do. Unfortunately, no one knows this better than Abby herself. She’s smiling that monumental smile of hers, hands falling to either side of his lapel as she steps into time and pulls him right along with her. Together they fall into the sway of an Elton John song, not quite a ballad, not quite rock and roll.

Their practiced ballroom steps feel familiar after spending so much time dancing across the world. “This is the part,” she says, “where you tell me how pretty I look.”

“You do,” he says, and he means it. He’s always thought so, since she first strutted into his life. She’s a good looking girl in a good looking dress, every part of her carefully curated to draw the eye. “I like the dress.”

“It has pockets,” she points out.

“Very handy,” he says.

“Matt, we’re family now,” she says. “You’re going to have to get more excited about my dress pockets. It’s what family does.”

With nothing more than the shape of her step, Matt senses a twirl coming on and he sets her up with ease. He spins her not just once, but twice, because Abby always likes to go for a little extra flair. “We’ve been family for a while now, I think,” he says, pulling her back into their shared frame. “I think you knew, even back then.”

“Back when you were a true-blue farm boy who’d never seen a woman before?” she says with a doting look. “I’ll take credit for a lot, but I can’t take credit for that one. Truth be told, I expected to burn through you as quickly as I burned through all the others. I had no idea what you’d eventually mean to me. To her.”

Abby doesn’t say her name, but even so, Matt can’t help but glance toward Rachel, standing on the far side of the room and chatting with the Secretary of Transportation. The whole night has been like that—finding Rachel, wherever she may be. Landing on her. Lingering.

It must be the same for her because she turns, as though she feels his eyes on her. Catches his glance. Beams.

“When was it?” he asks, prying his eyes back toward Abby. “When did you know?”

Abby studies him, debating. Matt is trusted with Pentagon secrets and espionage of the highest international order, but still she searches his features as though she’s not quite sure he’s ready to hear the truth. “Long before either of you,” she says. “That’s for sure.”

“Abby—”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I have a sisterly duty to uphold a longstanding tradition between bridesmaids and groomsmen.”

“There’s only one groomsman,” Matt reminds her. “And it’s Joe.”

“Isn’t that interesting?”

“When did you know?” he tries again, grabbing hold of her arm before she can step away, and again, she holds her tongue. Tests the answer in her head.

Finally, she lets a softer smile slip. “The first time you called her, instead of calling me.”

There’s something bittersweet in her tone, which Matt only hears because it’s Abby. He’s known her longer than just about anyone here, enough to know that she wants to be wanted. That she stands with the sort of confidence that comes from other people, rather than someplace deep within herself. For Abby, Matt is the one who got away—not in the traditional sense, but rather, in the sense that Matt stopped needing Abby before she stopped needing him. 

Him, getting away from her. What a world.

So he says, with a smile all his own, “Thank you for trying to burn me, way back when.”

She tuts, a manicured hand reaching toward his cheek where she leaves two farewell pats. “Anytime, hot stuff.”

From the surrounding speakers, Elton John turns to Cindy Lauper. Matt is quickly left in the dust as Abby squeals, turns toward Rachel, and races across the room to pull her onto the dance floor next. The two of them find the center of a dance circle made entirely of women, screaming along to “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” 

_____

Matt slides a glass of good scotch across a bar top. “Thanks again,” he says, “for flying my folks out.”

Henry Cameron catches the scotch at the bar’s end. He doesn’t spare a glance for it, too caught up in watching his girls dance. “A mother should get to see her only son’s wedding,” he says. “And your mother, in particular, is a delight—is it possible my guest room is somehow cleaner than it was the day she arrived?”

“Yessir, that’ll be my mama,” Matt says, ordering a glass of scotch for himself. “I appreciate the accommodations.”

“She may stay as long as she likes,” he says. “And your father was asking about some of the memorials. I thought I might take them downtown while they’re here, if that’s alright with you?”

His parents have a three-week stretch in DC and while he knew the Cameron Estate would take good care of them, he never expected the man of the house to personally show them the sights. “Yeah,” he says, a little too quickly. “Yes, absolutely—you should know, though, that my pops has a hard time walking long distances. He won’t say anything about it, but he’s had a limp since he first came home and he’s never managed to shake it. And my mama—”

Henry lifts a single hand, finally shifting his gaze to Matt. “Rest assured they’ll be well taken care of while you’re away,” he says. “I have a connection or two, when it comes to touring the Mall.”

Matt’s got no doubt. If there’s one thing he’s learned about Henry over the past few years, it’s that he has a connection for everything. “Okay,” he says. “Thank you.”

Henry’s attention falls back to his girls. The space between them seems to grow as Matt runs out of words, opting instead to take a sip from his drink as it arrives. Their relationship begins and ends with the Circle of Cavan, and this hardly seems like the time to talk strategy.

“I suppose it’s the least I can do,” Henry finally says. “You make my girls happy, and for that I owe you a great deal.”

Matt follows his look across the dance floor to find the sisters now dancing arm-in-arm to a ballad, talking and giggling through the slow waltzy rhythm. Rachel swipes dirt from Abby’s dress. Abby fixes one of Rachel’s wayward daisies. They both laugh at a joke Matt can’t hear from this far away. “They make me better,” he admits. “They’ve taken care of me. And I reckon it’s my turn to take care of them.”

Henry nods, in that sage way he passed along to his eldest. “I know that,” he says. “I know you’re going to try, anyway.”

This catches his ear. “Try, sir?”

Henry sips back the last of his drink, letting the glass land hallow on the bar. “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to keep your lives separate?” he asks. “Your life with her”—he casts a glance toward Rachel, then swiftly shifts towards Joe—”versus your life with him?”

Little does Henry know, Matt’s been asking this same question since stitching up Joe in an Italian bathroom, but he’s right. Matt feels it, too. There’s a disconnect between his dreams—between wanting to keep Joe out of his past, and diving straight into a future with Rachel. No matter how many times Matt turns the options over in his head, they end up overlapping. “Every night,” Matt tells him. “Right after I close my eyes, and just before I fall asleep.”

Familiarity creeps into Henry’s expression, and Matt can’t tell if that’s a good thing. “That feeling,” he says, “never, ever goes away.”

For years, Henry has served as Matt’s barometer for what this case can do to good men after chasing it for a very long time. By and large, all those extra years come with benefits—contacts, authority, expertise. But every so often, Matt spots a shadow below Henry’s eyes, signaling some bone-deep exhaustion that feels more and more inevitable every time Matt sees it.

“Promise me this,” says Henry. “Promise me that no matter how long this goes, no matter how close you get—you prioritize her. You make sure she’s safe, above all else.”

Matt considers this. Nods once, definitive. Seems like a fair enough request. Taking the final sip from his own glass, Matt promises, “‘Til death do us part.”

_____

“You know,” says Matt, voice raised over the roar of turbine engines. “My pops gave me all kinds of grief about taking a private jet.”

“What’s the matter?” Rachel calls back. “Haven’t the people of Lake Hayfield ever seen a private plane?”

“I dunno about Lake Hayfield,” says Matt, taking her roller bag to carry up the steps. “But I’ll tell you what, the people of Hay Springs sure haven’t.” 

In a career where jetsetting and globetrotting are commonplace, the only real vacation is spent at home among familiar sights, sounds, and textures. Rather than spend their honeymoon looking over their shoulders in a foreign country, Matt and Rachel decide to keep things domestic, where they can afford to be entirely single-minded about the next few weeks. Someplace safe. Someplace they don’t have to think about.

The apartment, they decided, was out of the question. While Joe may be a discrete and quiet roommate, Matt intends to do some downright indiscreet things to Rachel that will make her anything but quiet. And because he also has no desire to do so under Henry Cameron’s roof, her place was booted off the list just as quickly. 

“Your father’s flown private before, hasn’t he?” she asks.

Matt doesn’t know how to break it to her, that normal people don’t ever see the inside of a private jet. “Not unless you count an Army flier.”

This sends her lips into a puzzled frown, and Matt just wants to kiss them straight.

After some back-and-forth, Matt convinced his folks to spare the one and only home he’s got left. It’s a trade, of sorts. His parents finally make a long-awaited trip to DC, courtesy of the Cameron Estate, while he and Rachel take the ranch. All he had to do was promise to watch the wheat and let the animals out every morning.

Rachel was less enthusiastic about the animals, but Matt’s certain she’ll come around when she sees the first sunset across the plains.

“We should send him back on the jet,” Rachel offers.

“I love you,” he says, “but my pops would sooner die than show up back home in one of these things.”

Matt’s only proven right when he steps into the cabin, finished with fine woods and leathers. A bottle of Champagne waits for them on ice, the label written in French and the vintage starting with an eighteen. The smell of steak fills the air, which is a relief to his grumbling stomach because even though he paid for most of the wedding food, he somehow didn’t eat much of it. It’s the last taste of luxury they’ll have for the next few weeks, so he vows to enjoy every second of it.

He stows her bag, then his. Pops the Champagne, then pours both of them a glass. She holds out her flute toward his, crystal chiming as their glasses clink, and they sip. Take a breath. With the taste of grapes on his lips, he kisses her the same way he has all night, just so damn lucky to be here.

“You know,” he says, barely pulling away. “I’ve always wondered—”

“Matthew,” she scolds.

“I haven’t even said it yet.”

She falls into her seat, digging for the buckle to strap herself in. There’s a subtle edge to her foreboding glance. The one that begs him to challenge her. “You didn’t have to,” she says. “It’s an eight hour flight. We can wait.”

“I’m not saying we have to go for the home run,” he teases, dropping to his place just at her front, down on his knees for her, just as he always seems to be. “Just that if you let me warm up my throwing arm now, I might be able to pitch a perfect game later.”

She laughs, short and haughty and delighted. Her hand falls into his hair, scratching warm streaks into his scalp. “You hate pitchers,” she reminds him.

“I’ve got a third-base metaphor I could use instead.”

“Matthew.”

“Alright, alright,” he says. She’s still wearing her final dress, the shortest of the three. It was made for dancing, and the alternative benefits are a nice bonus. “I can scrounge up a golf metaphor instead.”

“You,” she says, taking another sip of Champagne, “are a smartmouth.”

“Agreed,” he says, just as his fingertips find the lace on her stockings. His lips follow close behind, landing along the hem as his wide eyes search for her answering smile. “So how about we see what else my mouth can do, hmm?”

Another laugh. A lifetime of her laugh. It sends his stomach twisting in all the best ways.

Two of her fingers find his chin, lifting his head up to look at her properly. “Buckle up, so we can take off,” she tells him. “And when we’re in the air, you can help me get this dress off. Fair?”

Now it’s his turn to smile, but he doesn’t hold it long before Rachel’s lips are on his, a smile of her own sneaking in.

[helenablogsworld]

Echoes of Romance in Abandoned Libraries

The damp air hung thick as the twilight settled over the crumbling estate, its ivy-covered walls blending into the darkened woods. A single lantern flickered along the cobblestone path, casting long, trembling shadows that reached like skeletal hands toward the sky. At the heart of the estate stood the library, once the crown jewel of a forgotten scholar's life, now an untouched relic of time’s passage.

Annabelle’s footsteps were light, almost reverent, as she crossed the threshold of the library. Dust motes danced in the beams of fading sunlight that poured through cracked, leaded glass windows. The scent of ancient parchment and decaying leather filled her lungs, a familiar comfort that had drawn her back, time and again, to this forsaken place.

For years, no one came here. The great minds who once haunted these halls had passed into oblivion, leaving only their thoughts etched into brittle volumes. But Annabelle, an outcast from the nearby village, found solace among the forgotten books. There was peace in their silence, and something more—an unseen presence, a whispering that only began when the room was still.

She paused before a tall, creaking shelf, her fingers trailing over the spines of aged volumes. Her heart quickened as she reached the familiar book, its leather binding worn and soft. Letters on the Philosophy of Love, read the title, embossed in fading gold. She hesitated before pulling it free, her hand trembling slightly. Every time she opened its pages, she felt the touch of someone long gone. A phantom of intellect and passion.

The book fell open to a page marked by a single dried rose. Beneath it, an inscription caught her eye, penned in a sharp, elegant hand: To the one who dares seek truth through love.

Annabelle’s breath caught in her throat. She had never seen this before. With trembling fingers, she turned the page and found something strange—a letter folded and pressed flat against the yellowing paper. The wax seal was unbroken. Her pulse raced as she slid her thumb beneath the seal, breaking it with a soft crack.

The letter was brief, but each word seemed to echo in the stillness:

"If you have found this, then you are not alone. The truth of love's secrets lies not in philosophy, but in the heart of those brave enough to seek it. I have waited in these shadows, and I will wait for you still. Midnight, by the lantern's light, beneath the elm in the west garden. Follow the echo, and find me."

Her heart pounded. The ink was fresh, as though written yesterday, yet the library had been abandoned for decades. She glanced toward the windows, where night had fully descended. The west garden, long overgrown with thorny brambles and wild roses, beckoned her with the promise of mystery.

Without another thought, she grabbed the lantern from the desk and hurried outside, her breath catching in the cold night air. The estate loomed around her, its cracked stone walls bathed in the pale glow of the moon. The path to the west garden was narrow and hidden beneath the tangle of vines and branches, but she knew it well—every corner, every twist, as if it had been etched into her very soul.

As she reached the clearing, her breath caught. Beneath the towering elm, an ancient lantern flickered, though no one stood beside it. She stepped closer, the crunch of dead leaves beneath her feet the only sound. Her eyes searched the shadows, waiting for a figure to emerge.

But there was no one.

Instead, the wind carried a voice, faint and distant, like the echo of a memory.

"You’ve come."

Annabelle froze. The words drifted through the air like a whisper, as if the wind itself spoke to her. She turned in every direction, seeking the source, but found only the stillness of the night.

The lantern’s flame flickered wildly, casting erratic shadows on the ground. Her pulse quickened, the thrill of the unknown coursing through her veins.

"Who are you?" she called out, her voice barely more than a breath.

"A scholar, once. A lover, once. But forgotten, like all who pass through these halls. And you? You seek truth where love lingers—among the forgotten."

The voice was closer now, as though it swirled around her, a presence without form. Annabelle’s heart beat wildly in her chest. She felt a strange pull, as if the very earth beneath her feet beckoned her closer to the elm.

"What truth?" she whispered.

There was silence for a long moment. Then, the voice returned, softer, almost tender.

"That love, like knowledge, does not die. It echoes, long after its time has passed. And those who dare seek it shall find it, even in the quietest places. Even here, in the shadows of forgotten libraries."

Annabelle’s eyes filled with tears, though she could not say why. The presence was close now—she could feel it, like a hand reaching through the veil of time. She pressed her palm against the rough bark of the elm, her heart aching with the weight of something she could not name.

"Do you hear it?" the voice asked, barely audible.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Then listen. You will always find me in the echoes."

And as the lantern’s light faded, leaving her alone beneath the stars, Annabelle stood in the silence, listening to the echoes of a love long forgotten, yet never lost.

[wedarkacademia]

dark academia stationary tips? ideas? please? i beg of you.

Deepen Your Dive into Dark Academia Stationery:

Crafting the Canvas:

Paper: Embrace the tactile – rough-edged parchment, marbled sheets, hand-dyed linen paper. Seek antique ledgers, vintage score sheets, or maps for a truly timeworn effect.

Ink: Let your words drip in history – deep emerald greens, rich burgundy, charcoal grey. Discover shimmering gold or silver for elegant annotations. For an extra flourish, explore calligraphy inks and vintage fountain pens.

Beyond the Basics:

Washi Tapes: Forget the neon, embrace botanical prints, celestial patterns, and antique library stamps. Layer them for depth, use them to seal letters, or decorate journal edges.

Stickers & Tags: Pressed leaves, dried flowers, and ephemera from library archives add a touch of natural mystery. Vintage anatomy diagrams, constellations, and old library catalog cards offer an academic flair.

Sealing Secrets: Wax seals & ribbons elevate simple letters into heirlooms. Choose deep green wax, embossed with a raven, a quill, or your own monogram. Tie with silk or hemp twine for a finishing touch.

Unleashing the Scholarly Spirit:

Journals & Notebooks: Opt for leather-bound volumes, with aged paper and ribbon bookmarks. Decorate with antique maps, pressed flowers, or handwritten quotes from your favorite poets.

Organizing Knowledge: Index cards, vintage library pockets, and antique file folders help categorize your studies. Label them with elegant script and adorn them with botanical sketches or scientific diagrams.

The Scholar's Tools: Antique brass compasses, vintage rulers, and magnifying glasses add a touch of academic ambiance to your desk.

Whispers of Antiquity:

Poetry & Letters: Handwrite in a flowing script, penning sonnets or letters to fellow scholars. Let foreign languages add a touch of mystery, or slip in quotes from forgotten classics.

Ephemera & Found Objects: Tuck pressed leaves, antique botanical prints, or ticket stubs from forgotten museums into your notebooks. Let them spark inspiration and evoke past journeys.

The Art of Storytelling: Create your own dark academia-inspired stationery. Make vintage-themed envelopes from maps, decorate boxes with constellation patterns, or craft your own wax seal stamp.

Remember, dark academia is about embracing an atmosphere. Let your creativity flow, curate your collection with intention, and transform your stationery into a portal to an enchanting world of forgotten knowledge and secret societies.

[acornsalessealsstamps]

Personalized Aquarius Zodiac Symbol Desk Embosser with Floral Design

Make your mark with celestial charm ! Our Personalized Aquarius Zodiac Desk Embosser features an elegant floral design and 1-5/8" custom imprint—perfect for planetary researchers, astrology lovers & personalized library collections.

[wetcatspellcaster]

1, 9, 26

Thank you for the ask!! :)

(9 is copied and pasted from other answers, sorry to scrollers!)

1. What was your Tav's place of birth and raising like?

Ok, so I don't know a huge amount of Faerun lore, but I decided that Rose's hometown was Daggerford, as it's just a few hours outside of Waterdeep. Rosalie grew up as the only child of a family who had lived in Daggerford for a few generations - she lived with her parents but then her mother's extended family, so an aunt and cousins who feel more like siblings due to their proximity (they live on the same road) and similarity in age. It is a house but like, a modest cottager house, so they were pretty comfortable. Her father is a handyman, and her mother worked in the shop she inherited from her grandmother (although her aunt and her husband actually owned it - Rose's mother and father met when he helped renovate the shop floor), so like, a solidly middle class upbringing.

9. What was your Tav doing when they were taken by the mindflayers?

oh! I actually nearly put this in a chapter but took it out! it's mentioned once or twice, but Rosalie was working on Deep Speech translations (in D&D Deep Speech doesn't have a written language, but it is often written in Undercommon or Elvish, so she's translation those into Common). This is the language of mindflayers, which is theoretically why she was susceptible to the ship's call. She was working late in the library, the last person left, and then felt compelled to go stand on the balcony outside, where she gets picked up! Everyone thought she disappeared because I decided that this happens in Waterdeep at like 2am, before the events of the game start in Baldur's Gate like 6hrs later in daylight.

26. Does your Tav have a treasured item with them? If yes, what is it and why is it special?

Not to be wizardcore about this, but Rosalie's spellbook is her cherished item. Her parents bought it for her from a specialist magic shop when they heard she was becoming a wizard and joining the Watchful Order. It's a burgundy cloth bound book with gold embossing and the seal of a rose on the front cover (you can see it a little in this picture!)

30 questions for your Tav!

[acornstamps]

[kochengmarah]

a list of things to be interested in:

typewriters

library embossers

expensive luxurious fountain pens

wax seals

handwritten letters

[totalimagesolution]

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[pages-of-us]

Far Away from Home

It was a crisp autumn afternoon when the letter arrived, neatly folded in an embossed envelope with a golden seal. The Zane family gathered in the living room as Elliot opened it, his hands trembling slightly. His eyes widened as he read the contents aloud.

“Dear Mr. Zane, we are pleased to offer you a full-ride scholarship to attend Winston Academy for an academic exchange program...”

The words hung in the air as silence fell, quickly broken by Andrew’s wide-eyed exclamation.

“It’s an incredible opportunity, El,” Andrew said, his voice warm with pride but tinged with the faintest hint of hesitation.

Ralph, standing behind the couch, nodded. “They wouldn’t have chosen you if you weren’t extraordinary. We’re proud of you, son.”

The twins, Yaz and Ellias, were less subtle with their feelings.

“Wait, you’d be leaving us?” Yaz asked, her face scrunched in dismay.

“For how long?” Ellias added, crossing his arms.

“A semester at a time,” Elliot replied, trying to sound optimistic. “But I’d come home for breaks, and we can always video call!”

Despite the initial reluctance, the family rallied around him, helping him prepare for the big move. Yaz painted a sign that read "Go Get 'Em, El!" while Ellias crafted a survival kit packed with snacks and doodles. Andrew and Ralph took care of the logistics, ensuring every detail was perfect.

When the day came to drop him off, the entire family piled into the car. As they said their goodbyes, Yaz hugged him fiercely, Ellias slipped him a note saying, “Don’t forget us,” and Ralph and Andrew reassured him that he was just a call away.

**********************************************************************

At first, Elliot thrived. The school was everything he imagined and more—imposing brick buildings, sprawling libraries, and classmates from all over the world. The classes were challenging, and for a boy who loved learning, it felt like a dream.

He joined the astronomy club, aced his exams, and even found himself enjoying late-night philosophical debates with his dormmates. But as weeks turned into months, Elliot began to feel the pangs of homesickness.

The twins were no longer barging into his room, Yaz yelling about some new sports achievement, or Ellias proposing wild camping ideas. He missed Andrew’s warm hugs and Ralph’s steady presence. Even Blue, their golden retriever, felt like a distant memory.

Elliot’s calls home started to stretch longer. At first, he kept his feelings hidden, eager to show his parents he could handle it.

“Things are great here,” he’d say, glossing over the empty feeling in his chest.

There was a long pause.

“You’re doing something brave, Elliot,” Ralph said softly. “But brave doesn’t mean you have to stick with something that doesn’t feel right. Remember, this program isn’t permanent unless you decide to stay.”

**********************************************************************

One night, after a particularly long day of classes and a failed group project, Elliot lay in his dorm room staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars he’d stuck to the ceiling. His world felt bigger than it ever had before, but it also felt colder, lonelier.

Finally, he reached for his phone and called Ralph.

“Daddy?”

“Hey, El,” Ralph’s voice came through warm and steady, the way it always did. “What’s up? It’s late there.”

“I—I don’t think I want to stay here,” Elliot said, his voice trembling. “I thought I could handle it, but I miss home. I miss Yaz and Ellie, Dadda, and you. The world just feels... too big right now.”

Ralph listened quietly, his heart aching for his son.

“You’ve done an amazing job, El,” Ralph said finally. “It’s okay to feel this way. And you know what? This doesn’t have to be permanent.”

As luck would have it, the school had offered Elliot a student exchange program before he fully decided if he wanted to enroll.

**********************************************************************

A week later, the family gathered at the train station to welcome Elliot back. Yaz practically tackled him with a hug, and Ellias shoved a bag of homemade trail mix into his hands. Andrew smiled, his eyes misty, as Ralph clapped a hand on Elliot’s shoulder.

“Welcome home, son,” Ralph said.

That evening, the family sat around the dinner table, catching up. Elliot talked about the incredible things he’d learned and the friends he’d made, but his face lit up most when Yaz interrupted with her sports stories or when Ellias proposed a new science experiment.

Later, as Elliot lay in his own bed, Blue snoring softly at his feet, he felt a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in months. The world was big, yes—but he knew where he belonged.

And the Zanes, as always, would support him no matter what.

[fruitcoops]

would you write something about Leo being insecure about his age/how he’s so young compared to the team & finnlo? I sure would love to read it!

Sure thing! If anyone knows whether the tiktok contact paper hack actually works, please let me know. Character credit goes to @lumosinlove <3

“Harzy?”

“Yes, my Nutter Butter-iest darling?”

“Is it weird that you’re almost five years older than me?”

“In my opinion, no.”

“We were never in high school at the same time.”

“Nope.”

“Logan is only nine months younger than you.”

Cellophane crinkled as Finn set his book down; one ‘hack’ from Tiktok and eight hours later, every book in the apartment looked like it had been stolen from the local library. “He is,” Finn agreed. “Does it bug you?”

“Sometimes.” Finn’s shifting paused. Leo kept his eyes on his page, heart thudding in his chest. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. Why was it always so hard to find the right words when they talked about this?

“Not—it’s not things that you do,” he added when it became clear Finn was struggling for a response. “I’m happier with the two of you than I’ve ever been in my life. The gap doesn’t bother me because I know myself and I know you, but I do think about it and I wanted you to know.”

The corner of Finn’s mouth dipped; he rubbed an absent thumb over the thin leaf of contact paper protecting the embossed cover, then looked up with a quiet intensity in his eyes. “You’re a different person than you were in high school. I am, too. And I’m a different person than I was in college, for better and for worse.”

“Better and worse?”

His freckled nose scrunched slightly under the bridge of his glasses. His gaze dropped to his book, though Leo could tell he wasn’t reading a word. Finn did that, sometimes—the long pause to collect his thoughts. It was unbearably endearing.

“I’m more open, now,” he said at last. “I’m kinder. I’m smarter. I’m braver than I ever pretended to be back then.” He got that funny look on his face again, the one Leo had come to associate with ‘thinking about Harvard’, and not the fun parts. “But I’m also more cautious with my friends. I worry more. I’m not as daring.”

“You’re still daring,” Leo said softly. Finn looked up with a smile, then over to the freshly-organized bookshelves. They had spent hours on it, the pair of them. Finn’s calm attention guided Leo through the constant fear he was going to fuck up one of his boyfriend’s precious novels like a lighthouse in the storm.

NHL salary, baby, he had said when guilt over a misaligned corner overwhelmed Leo. Besides, you know how I feel about tiny bookstores.

He watched Finn’s chest rise and fall in a sigh. “I wish I had been less daring and more brave.”

“I think you were exactly what you needed to be.”

“I think I did the best I could with what I had.”

“I think—” Leo groaned as he hauled himself upright and dragged Finn, grinning now, over to lay across his chest. “—that you were being very brave, and very kind, and very smart while I was off getting my heart broken by a jock with stupid hair.”

“If it helps, I had pretty stupid hair in college,” a soft voice said. Leo raised his head and met Logan’s wry smile where he was leaning in the doorway. “In case you needed something to bond over.”

God, Leo was so glad they could joke about that, now. It still made him ache to think about the endless pining they put themselves through, but Logan and Finn had returned from their Cup run with a few essential cracks sealed up. He cracked a smile at Logan and caught a split-second wink. “How long have you been there?”

Logan half-shrugged. Long enough. “I know I said I didn’t want you at Harvard, but there are parts of it that would have been better with you. It would have been nice to have a study partner who could sit still for more than 30 seconds.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Finn scoffed through kisses to the bend of Leo’s neck.

Leo opened his arm and Logan complied immediately, taking full and shameless advantage of their new couch to squish Leo into the back of the couch without knocking Finn to the floor. A smacking kiss to the cheek made him laugh—Leo shifted until he was sandwiched between Finn’s solid warmth and Logan burrowing into the front of his tshirt.

When he closed his eyes, it was almost too easy to imagine. Finn, doing his reading while Leo distracted Logan from his fancy business classes. They could be in the library, or a shared dorm, or some secluded area of Harvard where nobody would bother them…

“C’est compliqué,” Logan sighed into the bend of Leo’s throat. “The funny thing for me is that I wouldn’t have felt like this if we met then.”

Leo paused. Logan had told him he loved him a thousand times, had said it silently even more. “…you wouldn’t?”

“You were, what, 15?” His expression was entirely unbothered when he looked up, teasing and playful. “Un bébé. And I was entirely stupid and repressed.”

“But it’s the same gap.”

“But it was different people.” Logan placed a kiss on the dip of his sternum without breaking eye contact. He cupped the side of Leo’s face in one palm, tracing his cheekbone with a soft smile. “You said it yourself. You were busy doing high school stuff. We would have had nothing in common. Now, we do.”

High school stuff, Leo thought as he ran a hand through Logan’s hair and let his head fall back against the armrest. As much as he hated to think about it, Logan was right—the NHL had given them a point of contact, something to build a foundation on. If they had met two, three, four years ago…well, Leo would have been just another moon-eyed high schooler hoping for his big break. He wouldn’t have the experience of getting his heart broken. He wouldn’t have the sense to understand why he should love them quietly in public and loud at home.

His younger self would never believe how happy he was now.

“I love you,” he said.

Logan’s lips twitched with a smile. You figured it out, it said. Leo couldn’t help his blush. “Je t’aime, aussi.”

Behind him, Finn shifted until his chin poked Leo’s shoulder. “Wait, did I miss something?”

“Just me putting puzzle pieces together, Harz,” Leo said without looking away from Logan. Pretty boy. Logan bit his lip and leaned up for a slow kiss that drew a sigh from the bottom of Leo’s lungs.

Logan’s hand settled on his collarbone, rubbing gently over it before he leaned back until just their foreheads touched. “This is hard to talk about for you, sometimes.”

It wasn’t a question. Leo nodded.

He could taste Logan’s smile in the next kiss. “Merci beaucoup, mon soleil.”

How could so much happen in 18 months? Leo wondered to himself as he relaxed into the couch cushions and let Logan rearrange him into prime snuggling position. A deep, happy sigh warmed his bicep when Finn settled down again; on days like this, when high school felt so close and the last two years blurred, he really couldn’t believe his luck.

Leo closed his eyes, one hand coming up to rest between Logan’s shoulder blades. Sheer dumb luck had brought them here. In an alternate universe, he would have been snapped up by a different team. He would have gone to college, himself. Or perhaps Logan and Finn would already be together, or still too afraid to do more than agonize over each other. Perhaps everything would go as it had, but none of them would have been brave enough to step up.

But luckily Finn had always been braver than he thought he was, and Logan had let his fire burn past the fear, and Leo had been right there to catch them both before they tipped over the edge. It had brought them to where they were now; he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

[sparrow-in-boots]

OC tag meme

nobody tagged me but i thought this was neat so, for my AC oc, Giulia Maria di Ezio Auditore

tagging my co-conspirators @cerbin-aen-feainn and @robin-in-the-library uwu

rules: always, never, sometimes

— LIGHT SOURCES

SUN RAYS.

effervescent smiles, dandelion puffs, bare feet, beach waves, flowers pressed into books, champagne glasses, rose-gold eye shadow, boho skirts, wire-rimmed glasses, hair in loose waves, kaleidoscope eyes, sunshine in your hair, fire in your soul.

INCANDESCENT BULBS.

crop tops, floral print, dancing in the rain, quiet defiance, hand-knit beanies, rosé, painted bookmarks, marble floors, cirrus clouds against a blue sky, polaroid pictures, hands held, fingers intertwined, flower crowns, baby bluebirds.

STARDUST.

lace bralettes, brisk breezes, jasmine-scented perfume, books with yellowed pages, tracking constellations, sterling silver, violin music, chess games, iced coffee, glittery dresses, high heels, secret grins, midnight meetings, wishing upon a star.

CANDLE FLAMES.

denim jackets, gladiator sandals, braided hair, messenger bags, movies at the cinema, stolen kisses, wax-sealed envelopes, haiku poetry, cherry wood, succulents, fountain pens, jigsaw puzzles, soft tired eyes, hidden smiles, cuddling with someone you trust.

MOONBEAMS.

newspapers, over-sized sweaters, dancing shadows, fleece throws, cutoff shorts, piano chords, red wine, messy buns, embossed journals, a hint of blush dusted across your cheeks, freshly fallen snow, tranquil solitude, burning incense, light hair and dark skin.

AURORAS.

combat boots, burgundy lips, infectious laughter, spiral-bound notebooks, pencils used down to the stub, ripped jeans, painted nails, cloud-watching, summer thunderstorms, hiking trails, vinyl records, film cameras, skating on a frozen lake, hot chocolate by the fire.

FIREWORKS.

dancing until the break of dawn, Heelys, being wheeled around in a shopping cart by your best friend, the euphoria of soaring through the air, being excited for what the future holds, group hugs, colorful tattoos, bronzer-highlighted cheeks, hugging a stuffed animal, lifting a child onto your shoulders, space buns, bright streaks in your hair.